


The Long Creek Or: How Craig Broke the Creek with a Potato

by Changeling209458



Category: Craig of the Creek (Cartoon), The Long Earth Series - Terry Pratchett & Stephen Baxter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Dimension Travel, Friendship, Gen, Nature
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:22:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25225300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Changeling209458/pseuds/Changeling209458
Summary: After five months exploring the Creek with his friends, inventing and daring all along the way, how many maps can Craig Williams map when he -- with but a few wires, a switch, and a potato -- opens up a rolodex of parallel Creeks, uninhabited and ripe for the taking?Can Creek #1 keep itself together?Can he?
Relationships: Canon or canon-implied only, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. The Other Side of the Creek

Friday. The Ides of March.

Winter begat Spring. Ever and always.

As the Earth turned, Spring would beget summer. Summer Fall, Fall Winter.

And in three months and a day, on Sunday, June 16, a very special, national holiday would come and go. An occasion to celebrate that one special man in everybody's lives.

The King's birthday.

High in the Tree Fort, Maya tapped at the calculator, glancing up now and again with a neutral expression -- half rehearsed, half genuinely apathetic. On the table in front of her, plans. Invitation lists. Spreadsheets. Plans that had been worked, and re-worked, and re-reworked, for six whole months.

Six turbulent, hyper-eventful, spine-twistingly infuriating months.

"Fireworks!" King Xavier declared. "Big yellow ones!"

Mhm. Visible in the daytime. Okay, that would be $43 above allowance, but...

"Ooh! And candy! All of it!"

...But everything had to be _perfect._ This tournament needed to be, perfect. Better than the wet dud last year. And the one before that, and the one before that.

And maybe, she smirked...

 _Maybe..._ on the off-chance that little _capital-C Creepgoblin,_ Craig of the Creek, just _happened_ to sneak in at just the last--

_ *bvvvt!* *bvvvt!* _

Suddenly, the King flipped out his PineApple XX. And lit up in a genuine, non-sociopathic grin.

"Power Punchers _HD Ultimate Remix!! It came!!"_ He dropped everything, zipping away and down the spiral staircase. _"Need it Need it Need it Need it!"_

The line of dust dissipated on its way down the spiral staircase and out the front gates. None of the merchants, or even the Acorn Guards, paid any mind.

Maya facepalmed with her calculator hand, buttons mashing against her face as she pulled her eyelids down with the monitor. And she growled that fatal, fatalistic growl that only she was allowed to growl.

Down below, The Blur, The Arm, The Squashinator and her steed, tapped their fingers dejectedly.

At this rate, the 14-year-old man-baby was never even gonna show up.

None of them would.


	2. The Potato Battery Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Craig Breaks the Creek, This Time With A Potato.

There is only one today, and over a billion ways to spend it.

Today, there will be a zillion todays to spend, and the rest of today to spend it.

Today was Sunday. A new, wakeful, sunny March Sunday.

Sunday, March 17. The ides of the afternoon, in the ides of the month of the first bloom.

And though little bloomed just yet, the leaves were the yellowest green they'd be all year. In the rippling forests moating off the Chesapeake Bay from the foothills of the Appalachians, and nestled clean between D.C. and Baltimore, was the modest suburban town of Herkleton.

And bordering the woods that bordered that town, was a creek.

And in the Creek, every other prepubescent in Herkleton would whittle the hours away.

The little ones would run into their own corners, tripping over whatever artifacts littered the forest floor, and turning those artefacts into the stories of their lives. This week, they'd play safari. Next week, the Wild West.

When their little tumbles grumbled, they'd flock by the busload to the big old Trading Tree, just beyond the meadows where the girls became horses. This tree was second in size only to the great Mt. Sycamore.

And from the third largest tree, where the Creek hooked up and around three times over, the Timekeeper would play her note at 6:00 pm every day, school night or no. The song would join the orioles, announcing the End of Days, and the beginning of a new age. The age of dinner. A return to reality.

But until that hour came, down in the the Creek, you were both a child, and your own grown-up. Here in the Creek, not a soul could tell you what to do.

_**"Alright, That'sh enough goofing off! Back to work, everyone!!"** _

Except for Jason, and the Junior Forest Scouts.

_**"You, Shailor Boy! Tighten that screw! Anything lessh than an A++ is a B!"** _

The Spring Creek After-Tutor School Science Workshop was mandatory. Only if you were already done were you spared the round-up.

Almost nobody was spared.

_**"Less mushcle, more hushtle!"** _

In the bald maple stand opposite the Creek from the warzone that was Rainbow Alley, the Junior Scouts had their own nominal base of operations: Camp Jason, little more than a few picnic tables over a paved dirt square. Off in the corners: a firepit, a line of tents, and a jungle gym of wood, logs, and lots and lots of rope.

The main attraction here was the bare, yet-to-bloom, Hundred-Knot Sugar Maple, with her hundred bear-bags dangling free, and her hundred practice knots decorating her knotted bark.

But the Creek was a very, very big area to patrol. So even the Scouts themselves rarely found themselves here.

_**"Ahh! So much Cheetle-dust! Into the bin with that one! Shtart over! And ushe proper decontaminashion proceduresh!"** _

Every little puppy in the Creek, even the most socially distant, lined the campsite like the leaves on the forest floor.

"Ugh. No, Ski-Mask," Jason massaged his temples, having to shout over the chatter. "You cannot ushe our bear bait as your punching bag."

 ** _"Mmmh,"_ **The baggy kid was indeed wearing a ski-mask, one that covered their nose. They grumbled back to the table, squeezing in foot-first with the other no-bathers.

The picnic tables bowed under a dozen butts, islands of driftwood among the rustling outdoor Kiddy Pool. First-come, first served, and they served well.

Those first fourty barefaced nosepickers were packed in, shoulder-to-shoulder, like soldiers in transit to a faraway country. Toiling away, for four hours, at a month's worth of work.

The stragglers had to settle for the log benches out among the weeds. Plopped down, facing the Tree, wherever shrubs and saplings weren't in the way.

That left all the rest, some of them barefoot, to step all over each other like billy goats, mumbling 'excuse me's' and getting all kinds of grabby and personal. And using the unwashed signs as handrails, grabbing billboards with their unwashed, nosesnack-picked hands.

One of the girls got a leaf to her nose, and sneezed right onto her neighbor's face.

The boy wiped it off with the palm of his hand, and went back to work, without missing a beat.

This was today, as tomorrow. Off-duty students and their work, laid bare for the judges, all in varying stages, from not-even-started, to fully half-done.

A perfectly normal day at the Creek, in a perfectly normal world.

"You're making _another_ potato lightbulb?" Kelsey Pokoly exasperated. "Craig, the point of science is to be _innovative._ "

The warrior slammed her gluebrush down, her torn cape jumping from the force of impact. Before her, the heart of an Orc King, made with real blood, flesh, paper mache and sugar water. Well-proportioned, pinned with lovingly annotated diagrams and definitions. Even the shape of the arteries were accurate.

Kelsey and her two charges had the big Picnic Table, the one under the shade of the Old Maple, all to themselves.

"Mhmm," Craig Williams nodded politely. "Yokay,"

Off in his own little Craig world, the Stump Leader picked out and lay the pieces like Mego bricks around his plastic Slide the Ferret lunchbox.

Past his elbow, with two leads leading into it, was an LED lightbulb, taped upon an upside down Sippy cup. Past the other, a digital kitchen timer.

To everything there was a flavor, and today, Craig lived and breathed his inner Craig. Sitting up straight, with dimples to his smile, tongue sticking out to the side, as he hummed a certain tune with a pep to the step.

Now and again, he'd make a picture frame with his fingers.

Craig Stacy Williams of the Creek was in his comfort zone.

Seated opposite him, an equally contagiously happy-go-lucky teen in an oversize Jersey.

"Don'tcha wanna stand out?" John Paul 'J.P.' Mercer picked up where Kelsey left off, tapping his buddy's shoulder. "I mean, isn't your thing like... trying something new every... what?"

Kelsey scooched another inch back.

There was a reason they were by themselves.

The heat was palpable. And J.P.'s project continued to rumble like the dogs, the souls, the pits of Hades, waiting for an excuse. For J.P.'s project was a sealed, smoking, vibrating clay-cano. Beside which sat an empty soda bottle, Mintos wrappings, and a glowing, ceramic-glazed glass jug of Señora Sala's Atomic Suicide Carbonaro Reaper Hellsauce (Now illegal in 10 countries.)

"...It's truth in advertising, guys! Mt. J.Puvius is not made of baking soda!!"

"Mmhm. Yep, love it," Craig nodded, blissfully unawares.

Short Kelsey, eye twitching, stood up and forcibly turned the boy's head. "The endless war that is life," she tersed, "demands one harden themself. To dig deep within their very being, time after time, and answer the questions that need asking!" As she made her speech, her cape and her hairbun billowed in a billowing wind as clouds gathered. "If the lightning was warned, it would --"

"--Sqwak!" Mortimor interjected, perched as always on his master's hairbun.

"--What he said."

Craig, tuning it out, got back on the saddle, lining everything up again and again, until everything was spotless. In precisely 12 seconds, his 1:34 Record in Potato Battery Assembly would be history.

"I _am_ pushing myself," he quipped, with the air of a teacher explaining why today's test wasn't just last week's homework. "I know, sometimes, I get a _biiit_ obsessive..."

Kelsey and J.P. traded looks.

"...But this project, the record I'm about to beat..." Craig held the chip with his spirits high. Thumb on the button and...

...Final roll call:

His trusted lunchbox, there for him through thick and thin. With a 4-grade-old rectangular hole cut out, for...

...A simple, 3-way lightswitch, a spare from the cabinet. Sending a signal to...

...Assorted bits and spares and copper wires, the kind you didn't even need a Radio Hut for, thank you Granddad. Powered by...

...A raw, semi-ripe, five-eyed, fist-sized, beet-red, Solanum tuberosum. A common Red Cloud potato.

"This..." Craig licked his lips, "...Will be... Perfection."

And the gun went off. Craig shot into a whirlying flurry as he whirlied about like his beloved mascot. Jabbing in diodes, twisting wires, hooking up resistors like a well-paid seamstress.

"Craig," J.P. prodded, wiping the lava off his face. "Isn't your thing like... trying something new every--"

_**"Gah! No, no, that'sh not how you put together a shelf!"** _

It spattered from the next table over. While Craig whirlied on unabated, Kelsey groaned like the dead.

_"Uuugh... Jason..."_

To everything there was a season. To everyone, a mood. And Jason _'Uuugh... Jason'_ Grey, self-proclaimed ranger of the Creek, in his perfect stack of banana-bread hair, his perfectly braced teeth, his perfectly-pressed Scout uniform with its perfect little sash, was in full Jason mode.

And Little Ally Linsay's project was meticulous, not a millimeter off. unlike _Someone's_ she knew.

"Here Ally, let me show you how it'sh--"

 _"Hands off!"_ A snap echoed, and a mouse-squeak.

Jason rubbed his hand. "...Did... Did you just shlap me!?"

"I'm in the second grade, you know," the girl in the Freezen tee snipped.

"Ah, Who hasth the woodworking badge here?"

"Lady knows he doesn't have his _'being a bossy, Junior Jerk Supervisor jerk boss'_ badge," Kelsey mouthed. "Why'd we adopt him again?"

The Forest Scout tapped his foot impatiently. Or, it looked like he was, lost in the kiddy pool as he was.

"Look," he kneaded his temple. "We can--"

"Jason!?" Craig called his Frival, 0:34 on the clock.

Jason stopped in the headlights. Then, with a grumble-grumble, he waded past his three newest friends to the 100-Knot Maple, tripping over Toman, Jane and Roger along the way.

Coming ashore, he dug out a quarter for the Stump-Approved, Council-Seconded **'Naggo-Braggo Jar,'** voted on 3-to-1, 16-to-1.

The whole time, Big Boris and Short Tony stood at attention, holding in absolutely no snickering.

None whatsoever.

Absolutely none.

'Scuse-me-ing back to Bench Island, Jason cleared his throat. This time, he kept a personal space away, even as he unknowingly stepped on Angel's hand. He forced himself to take a deep, pained breath.

"I..." his tooth-clench lit up into a dorky grin. "...I really like how you did the other shide," he pointed, beaming this time. "If you jam the glue in the corner, and squeethe nice and light..."

She did so, with minimal guidance.

"Shplendiferoush! Now, wipe it with your finger..."

"Little puppy's really getting there," Craig nodded, spinning the tater like a fly in a web. "He's not even snapping back anymore. Or using the whistle."

And finally, he slammed the timer. Two seconds off his record.

Craig stared at the fully-assembled battery, proud of his work.

He stared at the tater in the box, slightly less proud.

All that was left was to turn the thing on.

Craig drummed his fingers, even _less_ proud.

Was this... _disappointment?_ But in who?

"...You know what, Kelsey? J.P.?" Loud as he could, he banged the table. "You're right! I'm Craig of the Creek!" Craig sprang to his feet.

Feet on the seat, he slammed his purse with a heavy beat. And out sprang the one, the only, 100% completed map of the Herkleton Creek, which unfurled all on its own, with a flutter of the sheet.

"Forget records, y'all! I'm the guy who plumbs the depths!"

""Yeah!"" Kelsey and J.P. shot up. ""Yeah!!""

"Names the frontier!"

**""Yeah!!""**

"Pencils and markers all the things!"

_**""Yeah!!""** _

"I don't live in the past! It's high time I push the boat out!"

_**" "YEAH!!""**_

"Something new! Something bold!" Craig crackled with lightning.

"Yeah! This year, I'm going to try _negative sequence!!"_

_**""AaAAuuGhh!!""** _

And so, Kelsey and J.P. watched like bound enemy prisoners as Craig reversed his whirlying with an audible rewind: Switching the leads to the lightbulb, unjabbing diodes, untwisting wires, stripping every last resistor from the spud, before starting all over again.

And this time, he was the opposite of a whirling dervish. Once again, it was slow, deliberate, inventive Craig's turn to play. No more records, no more whirlying.

 _"Uuugh..."_ John-Paul Mercer had bug-licking to a science, and knew from memory that the red ants under the table were super, super venomous.

 _"Uuugh... what'veidone?"_ Kelsey pulled her purple cloak up in a cowl of shame. Believe as she might, her PVC sword wasn't near sharp enough for seppuku

 _"Cheeeep..."_ Mortimor Melopsittacus Mephistopheles XLVII, under the cowl, had only to wait four to seven more years.

All afternoon, Camp Jason and the SCA-TS Science Workshop would stay as hustly-bustly as ever. And as the hours ticked by, the sun left the Maple Table and grew toward the tannery, leaving Kelsey and JP under a leafy sundial. Time would cull the quickest of the herd.

Ski-mask, of all people, was the first to pack up. Followed by Toman. Then the Horse Girls, then Aaron, then Kit. By the time the sea became a puddle, and half the kids were done--

"Done!"

"Heh?" J.P. startled awake.

"I'm done!" Craig chirped, as he finally, finally, shut the box.

"Now, Kelsey..." He genuflected. "If thou shalt do the honors?"

_Cut to black. Spotlight._

_The air flowed past in a ballerina dance around the red-blooded warrior and her dread bird of prey. Her labor of love rested upon the table, with it, and the other two labors of love ready to knock the teachers' socks off on the morrow._

_Kelsey had so, so many important things to do to-nite._

_Adventure!_

_Glory and Conquest!_

_The thunder of a thousand soldiers against a lone knight._

_But... what is that knight without her friends? Her character without a filler arc to breathe in?_

Kelsey drew her breath. "Five, four..."

If all went according to Craiggy Boy's mental calculations, the miniscule electrical discharge, produced by the electrolytic operations of the spud, would travel through the labyrinth of wires towards yon eco-friendly lightbulb. "Three..." J.P. had a lilt to his drawl. Slowly, Craig pinched the switch.

*Twoot!* Meant 'two' in Budgie.

Now, a long-winded aside:

Matters of chance can be taken in opposite ways.

There is exactly a 1 in 520,000,000,303 chance for Craig to have happened upon the exact electrical configuration he did.

And there is a 1 in 302,208,861,673,051 chance for someone exactly like Craig Stacy Williams to have been born, to have lived the exact life he did, and to have been raised exactly as he'd been.

And there was a 1 in does-it-even-matter, for the glaciers up north to have retreated all those thousands of years ago, in the exact pattern that they did, irrigating the earth with fresh groundwater where they did, to form rivers, lakes and watersheds exactly as they were, and for those rivers to flow and change and erode and carve the land in the exact shape that they did, to lay the foundation for a town exactly like Herkleton, and its beloved playground, down where the Creek feeds the forest, exactly as it does.

Some will say that this is just that one in a gazillion being told. A million spilled marbles settling into a near-perfect portrait of Prince Phillip II, with the nose a bit big. Others will take this as a predestined one-in-one. Some force -- Anything from a Maker, to The Theory of Everything, to a million nanoscopic factors conspiring together -- pulling strings to guarantee the inevitable.

And still others will hold that all that matters, in the here and now, is what those convictions say about the people holding them.

And so whatever happened next, happened next.

"O--"

With a quiet *pop*, both Craig and his battery blinked out of existence.

* * *

"--ne--OOF!"

The seat, Kelsey, J.P., and all his friends and neighbors blinked out of existence. Soft silence in the woods.

Craig climbed to his feet as he rubbed his buns, prickling from the split-second drop in body and temperature. He blinked the spots out of his eyes.

"Umm... ...Hello?"

All alone. Just him and the thick of the woods.

But then he shrank.

No. These weren't woods anymore.

Though it wasn't even jeans-cold out, he pulled his hoodie over his little peanut head.

And he craned that head as far back as it would go.

This was a _**Forest,**_ in big bold lettering. One that stretched to the stars.

The Maple was gone. The sun was gone. Everyone's projects, the trampled path, the half-finished tent to the side, everything was gone. Craig was the one and only, up to his ankles in fern, weeds and litter.

All around, a faded, shaded lemon green soaked through, with a few flakes of lime where the sun hit.

And the trunks caged him in, like the legs of ancient giants.

This was what the word 'Wilderness' was supposed to mean.

"...Guys?"

* * *

_**""CRAIG!!""** _

J.P. flew to the scene of the crime, looking for any trace of the missing buddy. All that was left of Craig or the battery were four tiny screws, and the base and socket of the lightbulb.

"It... it vaporized him!" He teared up, bending over as his voice cracked. "There's not even a pile of ash!" And he collapsed, scooping up the remains with shaky palms. _**"CrAaAiG!! WHYYY!?!?"**_

That one wail, one of pure anguish, and everyone looked up, some confused, some annoyed.

"I was powerless!" Kelsey crumpled. "Blinded by mine own ambition!"

A true warrior wore her emotions on her sleeve. And falling into the bitter pits of grief, she plowed her sword into the dirt, then wrapped her cape around her fists in a mourning shawl.

 **"CRAaIG PLEaSE!! FoRGIVE MeEE!!"** She wailed at the sky, as she crumbled into the sea. **_"WHAT MAD TiTAN WOULD TAKE YOU SPECIFICALLY!?"_**

"What'sh all the ruckus now!?" Jason, Boris and Tony stormed over as the SCA-TS ground to a halt. "Where'd Craig run off to?"

Everyone was staring now, projects long forgotten.

The leaves quieted, and the birds stopped singing. Even the Creek itself, a world away, wept. Never again would it feel the humanity of... of a friend.

Craig was gone.

Soon, everyone was swallowing phlegm.

Even Bobby. Even Jason.

Friends hugged.

Enemies reconciled.

And all was quiet.

 **"You flew too close to the sun!!"** J.P. lay on all fours, banging a sleeve-blanketed fist. **"You maniac!! Why didn't you just stand out like the rest of us!?"**

Then the leaves picked back up, and the Creek went back to flowing, business as usual.

Quiet.

Stock quiet.

Breathless quiet.

Jason was a ghost.

Boris sniffed his flask.

Tony, poor poor Tony, spun and fainted on the spot, with a squeaky toy sound effect.

And Bobby stared aghast, with all the horror of a sugar-free peppermint.

And J.P.'s Pop and Mintos clay-cano, long forgotten, souffléd pathetically, leaving no mess, no tears, to clean up.

 **"TAKE ME TOO!!"** Kelsey sobbed into her cape-blankie. **"So wise! So young! _Do never they live long!!"_**

"Um, hey guys. Wassup?"

Kelsey and J.P. shut up. In their grief, neither of them registered the perky, yellow-sweatered, hoodie-vested, bepursed, All-African-American brainchild sitting where Bobby's diorama used to be.

_**""Craig!!""** _

Hugs.

No one paid any heed when Craig left this mortal coil. But now, the impromptu requiem had everyone's eyes trained. And every child, every puppy, every kitten, every boy, girl, both and neither, every procrastinator in the Creek stood, bubble-eyed and dump-jawed.

Craig, out of Nantucket Nowhere, had popped atop Bobby's table like an illusionist, with neither misdirection nor any hiding places to cover for him. There he sat, cross-legged, out in the open, clear as day, on the best possible vantage point under the Old Maple.

Craig had teleported.

It was Jason, scooping the book from his fallen Tony, who broke the silence. He cleared his throat, moving to recite Rule #302 of the Junior Wood Scouts Park Guide:

"..."

** "...What in the-- **

_ "My Candy Farm!" _

**\--justht happened!?" **

"Guys?" Craig pulled his hoodie down. "I think ol' Craiggy boy just stood out."


	3. The Creek is Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or: Craig of the Creek, the Creek, the Creek, the Creek, the Creek, the Creek, the Creek...

_Every time._

An oil train was travelling east from Laurel to Baltimore at 60 miles an hour.

_No, Jason. Be fair._

In the opposite direction, from Baltimore to Laurel, a passenger train ran west, at 50 miles an hour.

_Half the time. Tops._

Both trains sped right past each other, with over 5,000 tons behind them.

Right past each other, and on the same track.

_Every other time I do something nice..._

_...Why, every other time, is it_ him _in particular?_

The sun was half-hidden behind the treeline. Up in the sky and past the oaks, a plane was flying by, blending in with the rustling crowd and the clatter of the wind.  
Jason of the Creek had a front row seat. Every last one of his patrons dropped everything, and had swallowed the Maple Table under the Maple Tree like an amoeba. Semi-silence, light gossip.

This was Jason now. This was his SCA-TS Science Workshop now. Everything up in flames, bent metal, leaked chemicals, and so, so much screaming.

He should have been miffed. He should have screamed Craig's name in a slow build-up, the fore to a symphony of whistles and squirt guns. He would have paid the price, and lost his hair, and maybe, it would have even been worth it.

But the fire was just so... haunting. So hypnotic. So beautiful. An elegance in simplicity.

Craig, his jailer, his master and best on-and-off-again Frenemival, with but the flip of a switch, had _outdone_ himself.

Who was he to look away?

Who was he -- He with a hundred badges, one-time bearer of the ceremonial flag, and certified Best Grandson -- to tarnish this once-in-a-lifetime, singular act of implacable, methodical devastation? To further derail that which has been so thoroughly dashed to pieces under a white-sneakered, blue-jeaned heel? To interrupt history itself unfolding, to do naught but to bear witness, to fall to his knees and bow?

For the third time since the Singularity of Scientific Subterfuge, Jason checked his phone.

4:21. It had only been two minutes.

Jason sighed, and allowed himself another minute. There was nothing left to do but admire the flames.  
All the Maple Table was a stage, and his three trouble-friends stood front and center. They passed the new gizmo-doohickey between themselves, as everyone's eyes begged and pleaded for Craig to do the thing.

"Umm, it's not working," J.P. flipped the switch back and forth.

Craig took his latest invention back, and properly tucked in the bare leads to the lightbulb. And for the second time, he flipped the switch.

*Pop.* Craig was gone.

Commotion. Shock and awe. An 'Aw Lawd' echoed. Ally worked her jaw. Bobby reached, lip-quivering, as if to hug the air.

Carl and Faraday of the Alliance of Science whipped off their glasses, their eyes anoxic. And though they gasped for air, for words, only one made it out as they fled, arms flailing like madmen.

_**""WITCHCRAAAFT!!!""** _

*Pop* Jason found Craig next to him, dang near giving him a heart attack. That snapped the scout out of his trance.

Now, a growl.

Heat. Magma. A building of pressure. A pounding in the ears and a jaw-shattering grating of teeth and braces, with the force of the mighty grind of two tectonic boundaries, sending sparks and spittle flaying out and stinging the grass.

And bubbling up from the mantle, an overwhelming urge to strangle his warden, the air, the trees, anything, _anyone,_ suffusing his every broiling current of consciousness. Strangle. _Strangle._

"It works for me," Craig, oblivious, offered his hand to the redheads. Kelsey and J.P. hopped down after him, as Mortimor fluttered onto Craig's noggin as a treat.

The four amigos clasped hands and talons.

Then a fifth.

_**"Okay, hold the Ticksh up!! Pump the brakesh and pull over! Rule #1! Buddy thythtem!"** _

Jason panted, skin cooling off, as he let the pumping stress toy's calm words echo into him. Breathe in, breathe out. Strangling is illegal. He would be grounded.

When all was as calm as could be, he tossed the toy and snapped his fingers.

"Tony. Exsplain Rule #1."

The Kid Sea parted to reveal the bookboy.

"Uhhh... Oh!" Tony, dropping the cold pack, stood at attention. "Any expedition into the wilderness must be accompanied by an experienced survivalist!"

"Ththank you very much, Tony," he beamed, tossing a bar.

Little, round, Lennon-shaded Tony, panting and hopping on all fours, tore the granola to bits.

Craig and the rest rolled their eyes, and Jason rolled _his_ eyes in defiance.

Some things were not up for debate.

The plane continued to whistle by, well on its way to the horizon. Turbines whistling, contrails trailing. Litter tumbleweeding, crowd foot-shuffling.

Craig, with his teeth this time, flipped the switch to the right.

* * *

And Kelsey got kicked in the gut.

_"Ohh... my knees!"_

Kicked in the liver, between the ribs. By a dragon.

One who deadlifted every day.

_"O my stomach..."_

The fiery redhead lay in the fetal position, hugging her black pit of a stomach as the physical manifestation of all Earthly suffering germinated within her, crawling out from under her skin and burying its roots between her tendons, her muscles, in a full-body parasitic infection that sucked her dry of every ounce of bodily energy. Mortimor rushed straight to her aid, applying emergency nuzzle-therapy.

Through her simmering, tunneling vision, a rancid pile of sick stared back at her.

And she wept bitterly.

_"O the pai-hai-haaain..."_

Kelsey had a flu, with a hangover, with the mother of all That-Talk-From-Health-Class. She _was_ a cramp.

There had been no warning. No big-budget magical *shwoom,* no swirling vortex. No tunnel sequence, no fadeaway.

Just a *pop,* and the mighty Kelsey was felled. Begging for the sweet release, of the finality, of the great mercy, of the waiting embrace, of Death.

A *pop,* like that of a soap bubble, and the plane was muted, the sky gone. The woody zephyr, the chirrup of starlings, and very little else.

A *pop,* and the woods blinked to attention, mega-sizing in an instant, cutting the sun itself out under a golden-rimmed canopy. Channel to channel. Frame to frame. Green to green. Maple to moss.

Green. So, so much green.

"Ahaw man... it tastes the same the other way!"

J.P., out of the rippling corner of her eye, was likewise down with the sickies. And the whimpering bush where Jason once stood would be well watered for the day.

Craig held his hands up away from the cookie jar, still clutching his Pandora's Box. He was totally fine. The even keel of a galleon.

"G-guys?" The fearless leader took a step back. "Should we go..."

"No," Jason climbed out of a shrub, picking branches as he blink-squinted. The Scout had it the second least bad, having banished the foul demon in seconds.

Good for him.

"Second survival rule of Junior Forest Scouting, Section A," He recited, clear as day, as he dug around in his pocket. "Be prepared. Get your bearings befo--"

But he froze in the headlights. And widened. And dug. And dug.

Jason was short a speech impediment.

He felt around his mouth with his tongue. Then with his fingers.

"M-My braces! My strip!! My compass!!" He dropped down to a not-spittle spewling frenzy, buried among the bracken. "Where are they!? They fell out! How'd they fall out!?"

For a good while, the calls of the jungle were joined by the teary mewlings of little children.

Finally, the all-consuming anguish started to cool, and Kelsey could at least think clearly. Though her bowels still be missing, the dread knight rolled over to her back, then propped herself up with her arms. And she took a moment to properly set the stage.  
  
This was the Creek. It had to be. Same hills, same plants. But it was totally...

...No. Not abandoned. That wasn't it at all.

There were no overgrown tables. No 100-Knot Maple. No dirt trail, no toys lying in the oval-leafed leaf litter. No sign of any past habitation. The line of tents in the corner were gone, replaced by coppice and bramble. There were no projects, no stains or scuffs from past antics. Just mazes of herbs and potholes. Even the adolescent maples were absent.

The Great Oaks in their stead were... citadels. Oaks, taller than the Trading Tree. Sycamores taller than Mt. Sycamore. Scaly Hickories, casting shadows over their houses and everything back home, if this wasn't home. The Hickory behind Jason's bush had to be at least his own height wide. The horizon, or even the next hundred feet ahead, was a well-guarded secret.

The canopy above her wove into a warm sieve, sprinkling the land into a lemony overcast, the promise of rain without the rain. Indeed, through the airbrushed gaps between the branches, there was barely any white in the robin's egg sky.

Kelsey of the Creek, with a creak, pressed herself to a sitting position, her neck joints echoing that original *pop.* The barely-there air did little to settle her, mind or body.  
It eddied in slowly, one flavor, then the next. The brief caress of honeydew, with chalk on the side. Then it corrupted: Her own sick, the pungent mold and animal fluid, only growing agitated the more Kelsey stumbled. The bite of a spring shoot, marred by an old attic. The assault of a sock, little relieved by the herbs cradling her.

On and on these scents would curdle, in a skirmish to the death, until, finally, Kelsey held her breath. And she fought her way upright like an old geezer, her joints and innards jostling in a stew of pudding.

Now at her feet, she burped acid, leaning herself on a reddish, ripply mystery-tree, a stranger among the crowd. She didn't recognize it from her travels, but it was a Leanable all the same. Her sweat was hot and cold at the same time.

Clearly, no one had ever lived here.

"We're right where we were," Craig confirmed as he fixed his box to his satchel. "But... not, I don't think?"

Realizing he wasn't clearing anything up, "Okay, look!" He lit his phone and flashed. "That's the Rock Shaped like a Hoagie, right?" He beckoned they follow deeper in. Kelsey and J.P., struggling for footing in the pot-holed forest floor, did so.

"And here, on the other side! This is the gully you had the Muddy Buddies fill in to clear a trail! Remember, Jas--?"

"Ap ap ap! Who says _you_ take the lead?" Jason took the lead, twirling his 450 watt flashlight. He treaded past Craig in his well-treaded hiking boots, and his usual 'I-own-the-place' strut.

 _"I_ basically own the place, remember."

Kelsey and J.P. grumbled, catching up to their Fearless Leaders.

"Now, if I'm right..." Jason ate the handle, making a finger-frame. _"Thish shoud be the Guwwy I had the Muggy Buggies fill in lasht yeagh to clear a--"_

"Ahem."

Jason froze, then turned to find a brown, squinting, outstretched palm to his face.

With a grumble-grumble, Jason spat out the light, and fished out the quarter.

Craig pocketed the change as he blinked the circles out of his eyes. Then, with a deep whiff, he took the lead, hopping over the shallowest part of the gully.

"You know what we check first."

All in assent, Kelsey took her phone out, Jason and J.P. following suit. All four marched in, single-file, following chalky honeydew that was their Creek. As much a fact of their lives as the seasons, or school.

_ And so, Kelsey bravely shoved into the unknown, beside her companions (and Jason) for the adventure that would define her youth! _

And so, Kelsey bravely shoved into the unknown, beside her companions (and Jason) for the adventure that would define her youth. Hopping and rolling through the groundcover, blazing her own trail, past the tangle that only a weedwhacker could whack through. Soon enough, the runt of the litter had to parkour her way trough the roots and fallen branches that turned the flat ground into a badlands.

But no matter how potted the holes, how tricky the roots, how stingy the thorns, how clingy the bugs, how dry the must, how tricky the ruts, labyrinthine the brush, how gurgly the gut, how suspicious the pungent, Baltimore-Zoo smell in the dust, the Creek was their North Star.

But then they stopped for a second. Even Craig.

Up ahead, the canopy became the mouth of a cave. A black and yawning gothic cathedral. Splintery beams the size of behemoths, and the faintest moonbeams leaking through in a scattered drizzle

The sun was soon to become moonlight. The ghost of nature.

_...So... with her torch, at 50%, 49% battery, to light the way, Kelsey stood at the ready, to brave the never-tamed wilderness, where... _

...Where the elder woods, without a care, without a chill, swallowed the ants as they pushed on. The catacombs under a castle, with no torches, and no bars to the outside. Only the crowded silhouettes of the pillars remained, the textures washing out, the lime-green dying out, cooling, turning a muddy olive. like the gums of one's teeth, creepers and mosses pooled to the bottom, blending seamlessly into the carpeted floor.

Only a few God-rays stopped the forest from turning completely black. But, only wherever they shone did anything else grow.

And they _grew._

_...T...try as they might, the foulest of beasts... the likes of which, neither Kelsey, nor the author had ever heard of... were no match. _

Hedges and bramble walled them in, keeping them on a straight and narrow corridor. Kelsey's height caught up to her fully, as she struggled to climb over the knotted hills, which the boys simply vaulted over.

"I gotcha, Kels," J.P. lifted by the nape of her shirt.

Cold, colder, coldest. Only one or two islet of light now. Little dimmer than her own... 46% charge.

The snapping of hidden timber, the stripping of shadowed leaves. The train-chugging call of a bird, what kind, she knew not.

New --yet old, primal-- noises seeping through her ears and into her bones. Looming silhouettes from behind the scaly bark -- maybe giants, maybe normalsize. The echoes of shadows, trodding behind the slatted windows of the home of a blind man.

The back of her tongue was waxy now with the earthy taste, with lingering vomit, with the rusty attic permeating the air. Every turn of her light revealed a new phantom in the shadows: Scattering critters. A patch of ivy webbing up a log. Claws in the bark, slashing. A dry, lichen-covered log, shaped exactly like a handless corpse--

""Kelsey.""

**"AAIH!!"**

Craig and Jason cocked eyebrows, the former wincing apologetically. It was hard to notice the narrator's spotlight when the stage was already lights-out.

""Sword.""

Before them, a wall of briars reached out for them. One that could swallow up cars, with thorns like teeth. But who would dare change direction?

_...ulp. Kelsey, the bravest of souls, *bravely,* took the lead. Never once cowering or worrying about the terrain. Through the Briars of Evisceration, of the kind to... slit one's eyelids open... _

The bravest of the brave, laughing in the face of mortal peril, stalwartly redoubled her slashing with one hand, drawing her cloak before her with the other, like a Count. And she hacked. She slashed and slashed, crouching low, Mortimor retreating to her bun.

Sweat mixed in with the sap and webbing glued her fingers together, burs and thorns biting at her legs and her brow. The stinging and shanking reassured her that anything big enough to have a healthbar, could probably not move in here.

Kelsey stopped stepping. Climbing now, now clambering, over the tangled briars and wooden wires, scanning the next spot to grab and steady herself. Every five feet, she would plunge her sword, parting the creepers to check for hidden gullies, and climbed over accordingly. Not once did she let go of the honeydew-with-chalk. Mortimor had long since hugged his wings shut.

_ Swinging... with mighty... steps, over and under these, really really rickety, rotten, pungent logs, little drier than the litter beneath-- _

"Ah! Guys, I'm stuck!"

J.P. was stuck.

Kelsey cussed, rushing back, as she and the boys each grabbed a body part and pulled. Putting their backs into it, the big lug finally popped out of the Man-Eating Briar.

For a moment, the briar looked like it was shifting inside of itself. Then it was still.

"Guys..." Kelsey panted, on her back, lungs on fire. "...If we find an empty candlelit banquet in the next clearing, we know to bail, right?"

_Kelsey wished she had more bandaids for these scratch **\--OH SWEET SAURON!!**_

Just as she got up, she tripped backwards, choking herself. Everyone shone on the second jumpscare of the day.

In the spotlight, another briar, feet from her face. This one fur, this one rumbling like thunder. The rump of a mammoth stack of hay continued past them through the dark, leaving a mown trail in its wake. They never caught its head, for it was already past the treeline.

Were it still, its legs would have been four more tree trunks.

Once the underbrush stopped swaying, and the thing's resonating booms faded into brown noise, all was still, and she breathed easy again.

_... _

_...Kelsey..._

_... _

Kelsey drew herself into her ruined purple blankey, clutching her PVC pipe, as she toddled on in her grass-stained rainboots, her tiny parakeet in tow.  
Beware the ides of March.

The home stretch offered no further excitement. Until, up ahead, a horizontal line of light, about ten, twenty Kelseys from the ground. The Forbidden Thicket returned to its tame olives and peridots, now with visible berries and buds.

The air was just Creek now. No more mold, no more bitter sap or stomach sick. Kelsey took post behind Craig, steeling herself.

In front of them, a third briar, this one stalked, and tall like a post. 

She knew these ones.

In a few months, red petals. Red leaves, red. Red everything.

Mom, she was told, loved growing them.

But when Craig curtained the Cardinals apart, a hot light all but blinded her, and him, and the whole of the thicket.

Kelsey, unshielding, adjusted her eyes.

And the kindly warmth, and the unfettered breeze, were the first things that got to them.

On the clearest days, this was what...

_"Oh my God..."_

...what the Creek felt like.

They found the banquet.

The nettles underfoot blended seamlessly, grading, into the white beach. And just past the rocks, black otters, three of them, danced around each other, with only their heads above the water. Nobody could get a look before they dove in, but they were big.

And the Creek, this Creek, was huge. Gargantuan.

It streamed past them like --well, was-- a proper river. The water slipped by as if tipped from a bottle, much quieter than it felt like it should've been. A lap here, maybe a hushed rush there. But it was alive.

It was singing.

And the buzzing of mayflies, the chirps of starlings and orioles, and the squeaks of those sea critters, like mice, gave the notes.

Though they had yet to bloom, the bank was as lush and unkempt as a lawn after days of rain, with reeds and cattails to decorate it, and bluish-tinged grasses and Honeysuckle as framing. Even the flat rocks on a white-powdered beach, were painted green from the film of moss on each of them.

The water was nearly invisible, with only a few shimmers and sparkles to conceal the weeds in the mud, or the otters swimming in circles among the many, many colored fish that knitted bubbles just under the surface. The mists of foam, churned up by the crowd, would stick together, roll past and finally come unglued from the sticks and rocks poking out, in long strings of pearls that mirrored the cumulus clouds up above.

Like boats in the sea, trumpeter swans shared the pool with the main bevy of dog-otters, floating past and dunking their heads, with new birds landing where the old ones had slipped away or taken off.

All the way on the other side, where the woods resumed, even the oldest, the grandest trees, were little more than stubs of broccoli, pocked with wilted purples and yellows to complement the hickory-green. Together, they continued on and upward, forest becoming a sea, or a prairie, that faded out into the distant sky. Only a few peaks and breaks confirmed there was even ground underneath.

And in front of the understory, on the levee that doubled as a stage, animals of all shapes acted out their roles. At first, none of the kids could make out the brownish-black furballs, but they looked like, if they squinted... deer.

And buffalo. And bears, elk, rhinos. Rhinos alongside deer, specks of deer fluttering in and out of the woods with a shy trepidation.

And the clouds, and the sun, and the woods, and the beach and its troupe, were all doubled, reflected, along the diamond rim of the coast.

The children stepped out into the light, and onto the soft sand, as the sun, to their left, showed itself proper, from behind the treeline.

This was the Creek.

It was Jason who found words:

"Tick check!"

Craig teary-rolled his eyes, and held out his palm to collect--

"Actually, really really good idea," Kelsey pulled her boots out and inspected both her legs, inner and outer, before running behind and around her ears.

J.P. was the most thorough, having found three. He was all for free handouts, but not at the expense of a hard-working pensioner like...

...The country boy cocked an eyebrow.

Just to his left, nestled within a row of sweet haw and spicebush, there was a boulder. And the boulder was shaped like the redhead's own head: Rectangular, slightly oblong with a lump of dough where the ears should be. Even a cowlick of red christmas ferns as a crown.

And under the Rock Shaped like a J.P., a metallic glint.

"Hmmmm..."

"Craig? Craig?? Where'd you g-AAH!!"

A simple boy with simple needs, J.P. turned the him-sized boulder over.

"Don't Pop in like that!"

"Hmmmm..."

Under the boulder was a scurry of bugs. Earwigs, termites, mite-mites and... the one that made the glimmer. Green, black eyes...

"We're at Mt. Logmore back home. We moved." 

"J.P, what are you doing over here?" Craig caught up to him, shaking. "Paragraphs-long money shot! We got bugs at home!"

The eldest of the gang paid no heed. He stroked his semi-chin, 'hmmming' and scritching with his trademark jersey sleeves.

"Guys," he drawled, "I am a _connoisseur._ I have in my noggin every flavor of insect in the Creek, and their highest-value mud pairing." He popped lips. "And that thang en't ringin' any bells."

Kelsey and Craig gasped with a start, studying the swarm anew, focusing on that big emerald gem with dread in their eyes. J.P took off and tied his shirt as a bib, and reached down to add to the catalogue. He was slapped.

"Rule 34! Don't eat if you don't know!" Jason scooched and popped a squat. "Step aside, tomboys." He flipped his quarter without a care in the world. "Again: My field, my playground."

Jason whipped out a brick, the size of his pocket and the width of his eye.

The Encyclopedia of Probably Everything, Pocket Edition (Now with more Everything)

The scout popped a squat, opened up, and --figuratively this time-- traveled to another world.

"Mhmm. Ridged elytra, clearly... _Carabidae..._ " He flipped it over. "Not a tiger beetle..."

The Stumps looked on in silence as Jason broke out the magnifying glass.

"Jason, if J.P. doesn't know what that is, I don't think--"

"Rule #25! Listen to the experts!"

Craig held up his hands. "Geez, okay."

They stood in silence, drinking the breeze, as Jason listed off enough Latin names to summon a minor demon.

" _...Cotinus nitida, Calosoma scrutator, Carabus aurat--_ No, that's European..."

J.P., putting his shirt on the right way, wandered off and disappeared behind the hedge and around the bend.

"Completely fused it says, no septum, straight antennae... but _five_ foot segments? Huh."

"You guys, I found mammoths!!"

"Wait, no way!?"

" _Chrysochus_ \-- Oh my knots, this is aggravating." Jason started tonguing his bare naked teeth. "Methuselah."

The dental glue, now holding nothing but spit and food particles, felt unnatural on his inner lips.

"Those are Mastodons, ya big galoot!"

"Wawait, We have to take a groupie!"

"...Hmmmm. Me...thu...se...lah." It was almost like sounding the 'Ch' in 'Chutzpah' for two minutes, but for his gums.

"No! make it a video! That button down there! Bernard's so gonna have a heart attack!"

"Wall-a-by." He flipped, lips twitching up. "Di-a-be-tes. Diabetes." His laugh had a snort at the end. "Septicemicplague!" It was like eating ice cream with a fork.

"Wawait, is that _Bigfoot?_ "

Jason flipped another page. And another. Page after page. Diagram after chart after photo. Holding it out sideways. Checking and re-checking the patterning. Moaning, then grumbling, then chewing his teeth.

"...None of you happen to know any species with three eyespots, do you?"

No answer. Nothing but birds and the Creek babbling past. That was fair. For a species identification this challenging...

"Hmm... **GaPHLK!!"**

For the crime of peering and squinting his eyes, Jason got a full faceful of Stink-nose.

Marked, dejected, and ashamed to call himself even a _Junior_ Forest Scout, Jason, dewey-eyed, put the book down. And the one thing no one could ever think to hear in Jason's voice, alongside 'I was wrong,' or 'You were right'...

"...I give up. I have no idea what species thi--"

"No, J.P.! Stop! Don't say Hi to it!"

Jason startled. Trance broken, he found himself alone with the J.P.-boulder.

"He, Hey! Buddy thythtem!!" He chased.

And skidded to a stop just short of the others. And gargled.

Just around the shrubbery hillock, the sand blended into flat gravel. The sound and labor of thunder, like big boulders being thrown in the sand.

Jason's little big-brain went woolly.

 _ **"Ohmystarspangledstars!!"**_ he dropped, hand on his heart.

Mastodons! Badge-flipping Mastodons, in his possibly-literal backyard! Adults, grandmas, babies and calves, all cooling off in the levee. Two of the calves splashing and spraying, chasing each other and just having the Creek all to themselves.

One of the bulls, off to the side, kicking up gravel as it ripped hedges up from the ground with its tusks, then its trunk. A living bulldozer.

Jason struggled for breath, an invisible noose tightening around his neck, as he undid his kerchief and unbuttoned his shirt. One of the elephants was sitting on his chest.

_Hhhhh...! Yep. Here it comes..._

With his heart slamming against his ears, he toppled over onto his back, curling in like a dead spider, every breath setting his chest on fire.

Then, for a minute or two, the pain faded out, subsiding to a tingle in his jaw, neck and arm. Jason lay splayed out, face up to the white sun. He counted to ten, focusing on the life-giving eyestabber, before slamming his eyes shut.

When all of the pretty colors faded out, he woke up.

The sun continued to beat down, reflecting off the jaded water like a mirror. The sky was as blue as the purest larimar.

Jason lay upon an open gravel beach, surrounded on three sides by a peaceful river that should've been a woods, all under the unfiltered spring sun. A sheet of starlings wrapped around and melted into the nearest American Chestnut.

And his three best on-and-off-again Frenemivals were taking no-flash selfies with American Mammoths.

 _Hrrrk!_ The pain returned. _N-no! Mastodons!_

Ire. Fire. Another hot-faced contraction, like he'd been touched by a live wire.

Jason, age 9, was having a heart attack.

_Hnnnnng!_

This wasn't what today was gonna be.

Today, Jason of the Creek was supposed to outdo himself, in helping everyone else outdo _them_ selves.

_Hnggggh!_

Jason would be the Shining City on a Hill. The Forest Scout that Helped Out, in the most meaningful way imaginable.

For while he dutifully squeaked by with his C-. Craig, Ally and everyone in the Creek beamed, holding up their hard-earned A's. Even Bobby would, through the sweat of his brow, finally earn that B.

_Hhhnnnng!_

And Jason would finally earn that _'Bossy Junior Jerk Boss'_ Supervisor Badge.

And maybe, he'd finally find a 'thank you', from one voice among the masses.

_Hhhnnnhnng! Lungs... starving...!_

And maybe, just maybe, something approaching... Dare he say it?

_Hhhhnnng!_

Dare he dream it?

...Appreciation?

_Clutching... self... not... working!_

But instead, Craig was gonna set him straight. And in the chase, J.P.'s rumbling, tumbling clay-cano was gonna get knocked on its side. It would erupt, and rocket straight through Jason's perfect project. The one he pulled an all-nighter on with Boris and Tony.

And Jason was gonna run away in tears. And it was gonna be painful to watch.

And the Stumps were gonna go behind his back, to make a new Erosion Model, even getting the hackneyed carpentry right, and better than he ever could.

He was gonna grow as a person. As a friend.

_Hhh... hhh... hhhh..._

_..._

_...It's over. I'm fine. Craig and I will be absolutely fine._

But no. That wasn't what happened. Instead -- instead, it was Craig who popped.

With a potato.

Craigothy Stacy Williams had made a potato box, one that showed him mammoths.

Jason's sternum had cooled to a normal shade of pain. A full-body prickling, matching the gravel under his back. Simmering. Every pant a stab, the chalk in the air numbing his tongue.

Some _vital_ logical steps were missing here, and they were glaring in their absence.

Craig makes potato... He sees mammoths--

_**Mastodons!** Those are mastodons, Jason! Not mammoths! Don't give in to the stupid! You have a brain, use it!_

...

...

...Jason would drift about in the grey of his matter for the next ten minutes. And though he wished for a clue, any kind, there just weren't any dots here to connect.

_...Craig make lumpus, Jason see toot-cow._

So eventually, Jason stopped thinking.

And Craig holstered his phone, serious.

"Guys, Kelsey, J.P., Jason..." His tone was quiet, measured. "We're gallivanting in the woods with not a brick of civilization, and Mastodons are taking a shower in the Creek." . He unclipped and studied his new toy. "This thing, can only be one thing."

They looked to their left, then looked to their right. With the huddle of three assassins in the night...

...They thrust the toy in the air like a lost grail.

_** """Time Machine!!""" ** _

It was not a Time Machine, but one must let a child play their games.

"I don't believe it!" J.P. guffawed, shaking his head. "The answer was right in frontta us the whole time!"

"Well, fourty-second time's the charm, I guess."

"Why'sit go straight to a jillion BC, though?"

_"..."_

But Craig had shut up.

His lips were pursing. He didn't move a muscle. Not one. Only his hands, only shaking.

The bear was already two inches behind J.P.'s head, as he kept his tears in, struggling to even gulp. The shadow had already swallowed him up.

_"Don't. Eeping. Move."_

Kelsey's hand reached for her sword. But shaking, it pulled back, shutting tight.

After one sniff, two, The Bald Bear snorted, making a gag.

And it strode beside J.P., past Craig, easily head and shoulders over the baby mastodons. The parents had circled around, but otherwise went about their business, drinking and splashing. The bull sideyed, curling its trunk up like a lip.

Craig tipped, and toed, inch by inch, shepherding his friends behind him.

The black, bald monster waded its own length into the Creek, and started fishing.

Leaping for Jason and hugging tight, all three of the Stumps grabbed the switch at the same time.

* * *

The cold air was a blast to the face.

Craig didn't dare let go of his friends. In that moment, he never even thought which way to flip the switch.

Hugging, and shivering.

As the adrenaline left him, Craig finally took a peek. And the robinsong of a new world greeted him.

The woods were all oak this time, and again, they had taken the sun away. But this time, though it was undershade, the floor was granted an open window to the open sky.

The Creek now was a spring grove. Crisp, clear, and awakening from under a carpet of snow.

No bear. No mastodons. No motion. The woods were still, and as wide and wild as the one before.

Craig knelt down and checked his friends, looking down to see the cloud of his breath.

Suddenly, the cloud cut off.

The Creek was nowhere to be seen.

In its place, a damp, marbled riverbed. A pale channel nestled between the hills. To the left, the amber foliage pooled to the base, until the tips only just reached eye level. To the right, a wide, waking meadow blanket, half-hidden by the glittering snow. A zodiac of mist, with a cumulus sky as a backdrop.

A weedy grin slithered across his face, as he scooped some snow up, and packed it in.

* * *

  
A full hour later, the four of them *pop*ped smack into J.P.'s backyard, right in between the two birch trees. The Sun, as it declined, never moved an inch between the timezones.

Bated breath, the pinching of fingers.

From beyond the driveway, a car passed the neighbor's dog, sending her into a barking frenzy as she strained her chain, all under the hum of a distant lawnmower.

And everyone, Jason included, threw themselves under the cool, familiar shade, and laughed, and laughed as the snowball guts slid off their clothes.

"...And... when Jason, when you totally triggered that hornets nest!?"

 _"I'm allergic!"_ Jason wheezed.

They rolled around in the lawn and got it all out of their system. Craig, wiping a tear, took out a sharpie, and scribbled on his new toy.

**FORTH ← o → BACK**

"Why don't we try the future now...?" Kelsey croaked.

"Hey yeah! Let me look for Deltron first!" On his buns, he flipped the switch, this time to the left. Forth, into the future!

But nothing happened.

A tumbleweed tumbled on, as four kids and a birdie sat there, looking silly.

"...Guess the future's yet to be written." He checked the clock, visible through the Mercer patio. "It's almost dinner anyway."

"Oh..." Kelsey's Pop-sickness caught up with her. "Don't you dare mention food, ever again..." Mortimor gave her a comfort nestle as she got up huffing, her sword becoming a cane.

"Same time tomorrow then, Kels?"

But Kels had already hobbled round the side of the house.

"J.P.?"

But J.P. had already gone inside.

Craig, now alone with Jason, helped him up, steadying the scout as his feet went to stilts.

The mowing died down, and the horizon took a yellow, then an orange hue as the sun started to dip. The moon was already high in the sky.

"Craig..." Jason whispered, breathless, still shaking off the play-high.

"...You..."

...Without anymore words, he fell back to his knees, and he bowed to Craig, head touching the grass.

"...Okay?" Craig scratched his neck. "Maybe a little fast."

Jason shambled off through the car-port and down the driveway, muttering cover stories for what could have so thoroughly ruined his braces, yet not his teeth.

Craig checked that the marker was dry, and opted for a shortcut.

"Another happy-go-lucky day at the Creek..."

_**Meanwhile...** _

It had taken the rest of the day for cooler heads to prevail.

_"You called tails! You tell her!"_

Alliance of Science headquarters.

Faraday scooched closer to Wren, who was sleeping on the table. Carl threw down his pencil-lead-lined helmet, and ducked back inside the blackberry bush.

She, out in the open, blushed feverishly, and not from embarrassment.

Wren, fast asleep on the desk, had the most adorable snore.

In front of her little Atom Bomb's saliva puddle, A butterfly fluttered around, as she sawed and sawed away at her dampening notes.

_"*snort...* Any-miniscule-initial-variations-in-a-complex-system-compound-overtime... *snooort...* ...resulting-in-a-wide-variety-of-different-outcomes-from-what-any-models-could-otherwise-predict... *snooort...*"_

"Um, Wren...--"

_ *slam* "IWASRIGHT!!" _

"Eyum..." Faraday was expecting her little Metastable Chain Reaction to at least hear her out before scaring away a perfectly good _Polygonia interrogationis_ like that.

"...W-wren, sweetie? Do you remember your little _thing_ for parallel universes...?"


End file.
